


Exception to the Rule

by nishizono



Series: Principles of Morality [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Rimming, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade can't believe he let Sherlock spend the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exception to the Rule

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Age disparity (Sherlock is 18, Lestrade is 32)

He can't believe he let Sherlock spend the night.

It's one thing for Sherlock to come over after work, to hang around in the kitchen while Lestrade makes dinner and then sprawl on the couch to watch telly. And if Sherlock gets bored, and Lestrade gets horny, and they wind up blowing each other on the floor, well, it's all good fun, right? Sherlock is eighteen, which the law says is old enough, and he always leaves after, so it's fine. This, though... this is something else.

Because Lestrade hasn't _just_ let Sherlock spend the night. That would be too simple. No, he's fucked Sherlock, has been the very first person to do so _ever_ , and _then_ let him spend the night. Lestrade hadn't even put up a fight.

Lestrade sighs and glances at Sherlock, who is still fast asleep beside him. Sherlock's hair is a wreck and there's a bruise on his shoulder. He's lying on his belly with his legs spread and all right, fine, Lestrade is human, he's going to look. Sherlock has kicked the blankets off, and his arse is _right there_ , as gorgeous as the rest of him and still a little pink from Lestrade slapping it the night before.

Once he's finished staring, Lestrade rolls over and rests a hand on Sherlock's back. Sherlock sighs into the pillow, and Lestrade pauses for a second, then trails his fingertips down the notches of Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock gasps.

Lestrade stops again.

He waits until Sherlock's breathing evens out, then slides a finger between his buttocks. Sherlock's hole is still tacky with lube, and Lestrade teases it a little, prods at the swollen muscle and remembers the feel of it around his prick. The sex had been amazing, but now all he can think about is fucking Sherlock bare. He wants the heat of Sherlock's arse with nothing between them but skin. He wants to pull his cock out when they're finished and watch his come drip in rivulets down the insides of Sherlock's thighs. He wants to press his thumb inside, dig around with his fingers until they're covered in his spunk, and Jesus fucking Christ, what's _wrong_ with him? Maybe it's not Sherlock he should worry about.

Sherlock makes a keening sound, and Lestrade wants to bite him. A full night of fucking hasn't left him any looser, and Lestrade is careful not to move too fast as he works a finger inside, all the way to the knuckle. By the time he's finished, Sherlock's eyes are fluttering open.

“Shh,” Lestrade whispers, and god, he's going to hell. There's no other place for him. He's knuckle-deep inside an eighteen-year-old boy and making soothing noises like he's trying to lull a child back to sleep.

But Sherlock is having none of it. “What--?” he mutters, then gasps and lifts his hips. A couple good thrusts of Lestrade's finger nudge him wide awake and clutching at the sheets.

Lestrade whispers, “Jesus,” and bites Sherlock's arse. Sherlock's whole body jerks, and he shoves his hips up off the mattress, so Lestrade bites him again. The high-pitched whimper he gets in return makes him shiver right down to his toes.

“More?” asks Lestrade, his voice ragged. “You'll bruise if I keep going; you'll feel it every time you sit down.”

Sherlock groans like he's impatient, like he's expecting more than just a finger up his arse, and Lestrade doesn't know what Sherlock's asking for, but he knows what Sherlock needs: he drags his tongue over Sherlock's arse cheek, then flicks it at the skin stretched tight around his finger. And Sherlock? Sherlock fucking _chokes_.

“What--? Oh god-- god, Greg...”

“Shh,” whispers Lestrade, but there's nothing soothing about it this time; it's just a low, filthy sound that he presses to Sherlock's skin. He works his tongue into Sherlock, wiggles it around beside his finger, and Sherlock lurches back against his mouth.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sherlock babbles.

Lestrade wants to say something, but he knows he'll just end up sounding like a porn star. Besides, his tongue is better occupied in Sherlock's arse. He sneaks a hand between Sherlock's skinny thighs and squeezes his prick. With all the squirming Sherlock's doing, Lestrade doesn't need to move his hand; he just holds it still and lets Sherlock rut against it while fucking him with his tongue.

“G-god, I--” Sherlock is panting so hard it's a wonder he hasn't blacked out. “I can't--”

Sherlock comes like he's not expecting it, like it's being fucking _ripped_ out of him. He arches his back and shoves his arse in the air, and bites on a pillow to muffle his helpless little shriek. His cock swells in Lestrade's fist, and Lestrade groans when he feels the sticky heat of come on his fingers.

The second he feels Sherlock start to relax, Lestrade pulls away and flips him over. Sherlock lands on his back with a grunt and blinks up at Lestrade, apparently still dazed from orgasm. He licks his lips and spreads his legs, and god, Lestrade can't hold off any longer or he'll die. He curls a hand, still wet with Sherlock's spunk, around his own cock and tugs. And he shouldn't be this close to losing it, not with how many times he got off the night before, but the sight of Sherlock sprawled there on his sheets, flushed and covered in come, is just too much.

It's embarrassing how quick he is, but it's worth it to watch his come splash Sherlock's belly. Sherlock moans and spreads his legs, and there's no bloody way he's getting hard again, but damn if he doesn't look like he's trying. He slides a hand across his stomach, _rubs the come into his skin_ , and Lestrade's heart stops beating. He's never seen anything so hot before in his life.

“Jesus,” says Lestrade.

Sherlock bloody _purrs_ at him and reaches up to smear his fingertips over Lestrade's bottom lip. He pauses for a second, then pushes them inside, and Lestrade groans through his nose as he obligingly sucks them clean. When he's finished with Sherlock's fingers, he ducks his head to give Sherlock's stomach the same treatment. Sherlock wriggles and kicks his heels against the mattress, and by the time Lestrade is finished, he's quivering with silent laughter.

“I never knew you were ticklish,” says Lestrade.

“I'm not,” says Sherlock, but it's a lie and they both know it.

Lestrade chuckles and rolls over. The sheets smell like sex and teenage boy, but he's too exhausted to feel as ashamed as he probably should. “This is not,” he says, “going to become a thing.”

“Which part?” asks Sherlock. He's still out of breath, and his hair is sticking to his forehead, but his gaze is as sharp and knowing as ever. “The part where I wake up with your fingers inside me, or the part where you come all over my stomach and then lick me clean?” He smiles like he's got a secret, like him not spending the night again isn't even an option, and god, Lestrade could adore this boy, he really could.

“You're impossible,” says Lestrade.

“I know,” says Sherlock. The smile on his face is like nothing else in the world; it's like staring at a fire so bright you can still see it when you close your eyes. And when he rolls over and splays a hand on Lestrade's stomach like _he's_ the one with something to lose...

That's the moment, right then, when Lestrade realizes how fucked he is.


End file.
